


Why Colour in the Lines

by RichieBrook



Category: Arctic Monkeys, Last Shadow Puppets
Genre: Angst, Domestic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-19 03:35:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20203054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RichieBrook/pseuds/RichieBrook
Summary: Miles isn't great at transitioning from tour life to home life. Alex has turned up at his new flat to make the transition go a bit smoother. They both really want to think that he's helping.Partly inspired by the interview about music and mental health Miles did for the Elevate Music Podcast a couple of weeks ago.





	Why Colour in the Lines

**Author's Note:**

> I don't think I've ever been so nervous to post anything?? I kind of wanted to keep this one to myself at first and I'm not sure if I'm doing right by posting it. It's not really a story as per usual and it was a little out of my comfort zone to write them so far away from the stage/the public eye, so I hope they're not too OOC. :) 
> 
> (I swear the last few chapters of The Galaxy's Edge are coming up by the way! I haven't forgotten about it.)

Miles’ suitcases are still waiting for him to unpack them in the unpainted hallway of his new flat. They’ve been there for two weeks. Miles dreads the smell his unwashed workout clothes will undoubtedly spread through the empty hallway the second he opens them. He’s contemplated just tossing the suitcases out altogether, for the sake of not having to go through the tedious process of washing, drying, ironing and steaming his clothes, but even in his subdued state of mind, he knows it would be a waste. Moreover, the suitcases are slowly turning into a part of his apartment. They make it seem like he’s ready to go back on tour as soon as he has to and he is, _God_, he is. He’s only been home for a couple of weeks, but he can’t wait to be on the road again. And so the suitcases stay.

It’s not just the hallway that could use some paint. The rest of the flat is still mostly bare, free from personal touches like photographs, keepsakes and even Miles’s record collection, which is in one of the boxes in the corner of the living room. He moved in not so long ago, amongst the stress of bringing out a new album, planning his tour and band rehearsals, and he’s barely had any time to settle. The apartment just contains the bare minimum: a sofa, a television, a bed, and a cheap dining room set in the kitchen. It also, for a reason Miles isn’t sure he understands, contains Alex. He walked into the apartment as if it were his own two days after Miles came home, and he hasn’t left since. His hair is tousled, his eyes sleepy and his stance relaxed. His near permanent frown is nowhere to be seen and Miles can tell that he’s relieved that the Monkeys tour is finally over. Alex isn’t like Miles in that aspect. Miles could be on tour for forever and not feel homesick for a second. He’d rather be on the road than here.

Alex’s presence is the one thing that makes the plain flat that still smells new and impersonal feel like it’s anywhere near his. The scents of Alex’s shampoo and cologne have blended in with the scent of the freshly washed bedsheets, his books pop up in random places, like in between the sofa pillows or on the balcony, and his Chelsea boots are next to Miles’s neat row of loafers by the front door. The nights are riddled with lazy kissing and cheeky touches, with skin on skin contact and stifled moans. The first night Alex spent at the apartment, he spent approximately three minutes trying to fall asleep on the sofa before joining Miles in his bed, like Miles had been expecting him to do to begin with. Miles likes the nights best. They remind him of the Puppets tour, even though it’s been years. They prove that nothing has changed between them, not really, despite the fact that no new Puppets collaboration is on the agenda. Despite the fact that Alex has yet again found himself a new girlfriend. Miles hasn’t yet asked how long he’ll be staying at the apartment for. He hasn’t the guts.

Alex is in the kitchen now, putting away the groceries he just bought. Miles leans against the door frame as he watches him move. He watches how tight jeans stretch around strong thighs and takes in the curve of Alex’s arse, the small of his back, the way his shirt stretches around his shoulders. He’s wearing one of the Fred Perry shirts from Miles’s line, which fits him like a glove. “The shirt looks good on you,” Miles comments, and Alex jumps, before turning around and flashing Miles a smile – not one of those smiles where he simply pulls up the corners of his lips, but a brilliant, charming sort of smile that makes his eyes light up. He blinks at Miles and Miles is suddenly painfully aware of his own body. He hopes he looks relaxed, comfortable in his soft grey tracksuit and a pair of old, scuffed up loafers. He draws a breath, sucking in oxygen through airways that feel constricted for no reason at all**.** His clothing may be loose but his muscles are taut, his stomach and chest tight with knotted tension that he can’t explain.

“Didn’t see you there. You shouldn’t sneak up on people,” Alex says, but he’s still smiling and Miles can tell he’s flattered. 

Miles shrugs his shoulders, trying to get rid of some of the tension there. “There’s no rule against watchin’, love, not in my ‘ouse there isn’t,” he drawls. It’s only now that they’re speaking that Miles notices how quiet it is around the house, their voices filling the kitchen with an eerie echo. He fumbles with a loose nail in the doorframe. “Besides, how can I not look atcha? You’re stunning, Al. You light up the apartment without even tryin’, love.”

Alex’s smile is almost bashful. It’s beyond Miles how after all those years, he’s still so easily swayed by Miles’ direct playfulness and his cheesy attempts at flattery. He returns the smile, trying to ignore the tightness in his chest. There’s no reason to feel on edge and yet the uncomfortable feeling of restlessness is creeping up on him. It’s been in his bones ever since he got home and he can’t seem to shake it off. The only way to do that, or so it feels like, would be to go back on stage – to fuel his addiction-like urge to play yet another adrenaline-fueled show. It’s pointless, just being at home.

Alex shakes his head. “Flatterer,” he murmurs, his accent thick and familiar. He turns back to the kitchen cabinets, putting everything in place as if he’d been living here for longer than Miles himself has. “Tea? Summat stronger? You might be a smooth talker, but you’re off. Don’t think I ‘aven’t noticed.”

Miles shakes his head, even though Alex has his back turned towards him. “Just tired, love,” he says. “Still getting used to being home and all. Tea’s fine. I’ve that radio interview to get ready for in a bit.”

“Hm. But it’s _good_ to be home though, isn’t it,” Alex sighs absently. Miles doesn’t tell him that technically speaking, this is his home and not Alex’s, thanks very much. Instead, he takes a deep breath and pushes himself away from the door frame, putting his weight entirely on his own two feet again. He knows he should get changed, but he can’t seem to get himself to go anywhere just yet.

“You alreyt then, Miles?” Alex asks, his back still turned towards him. “You’re quiet. It’s unnatural, that. Gets me on edge. You sure it’s still you in that pretteh head of yours?” He turns around, lifts an eyebrow and frowns, but he’s smirking. Miles thinks it’s charming. He smiles back in spite of himself. He watches Alex turn on the kettle that Miles is pretty sure wasn’t there yet on the day he came home from tour. He microwaved his tea that day, then fell asleep on the sofa before he could do so much as take a sip.

“Quite sure,” he says absently, when Alex gives him another questioning look, a tad more serious this time. He knows he should say more to keep Alex from worrying, but he can’t for the life of him think of what he could add.

“You still okay with me painting the hallway?” Alex goes on. Miles can’t help but wonder who’s more bothered by his relative silence, he or Alex. “I can do it while you’re away. Won’t be in your way.”

It’s not the first time he’s offered to help Miles around the house. At first Miles reckoned he was just being polite, but ever since Alex has been here, he’s been keeping a list of things that still need to be done in an uncharacteristically orderly way. Miles isn’t too surprised. Alex isn’t very generous with his words when he isn’t writing, but Miles knows he actively tries to show how much cares through his actions. It doesn’t matter that nothing on the list ever gets done. It’s the thought that counts. And yet, at the mention of Alex possibly painting his hallway, Miles can feel a frown he didn’t plan to be there wrinkle his forehead. Alex imitates the expression. “What’s wrong? It were joost a suggestion,” he says quickly. “Weren’t going to paint it a bright green or anyfin’. Thought I’d go with a nice, glittery pink, eh Miles?” He smiles sheepishly.

Miles does laugh at that, giving Alex exactly what he wants. “I don’t mind pink. Just don’t paint my hallway it,” he supplies uselessly, just to have something to say.

Alex chuckles despite his unimaginative reply and turns around. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t you worry. No pinks, no greens. No shimmereh purples. Got it. I’ll go wif something soft. Louise said that that ‘elps. Soft colours. When you’re stressed, I mean. It makes sense.”

Miles raises his eyebrows. “Discussing my bleak apartment with your girlfriend now, are ya,” he says. It doesn’t sound half as playful as he means for it to, and Alex ignores him in favour of just rambling on.

“I’ll get on it today, yeah? Whilst you’re doing your interview.” He plops a teabag into each mug and starts filling them up with water. Miles suspects Alex is secretly enjoying playing home, but he doesn’t dare bringing it up. The last thing he wants to do his scare him off. It’s good to have him here.

“You gonna mention me paintin’ your hallway then, Miles?” Alex asks. “That makes you the superior rockstar, you know. Having lesser rockstars paint your hallway and everyfin’. You should tell ‘em that. Tell ‘em that while you’re off havin’ it on holiday, you’re letting poor, exhausted Alex Turner paint your flat.”

Miles smiles tiredly. “Oh, shut up, Al, would ya. Anyway, I’m – Ah’ve to get ready.” The tightness in his chest hasn’t let up, but he isn’t sure how to convey that to Alex. He’s not even sure he _wants_ to convey it to Alex. Out of the two of them, he’s usually the one who keeps a tight grip on everything. Alex usually comes to him for help instead of vice versa. “The car will be here in an hour. Can’t be late.”

“You need _an hour_ to get ready for a radio interview?” Alex smirks. “I guess you’re still you after all. Good. That’s realleh good. C’mere for a sec. I think I’d like a kiss.”

And Miles does. He lets Alex wrap him in toned arms and wraps his own arms loosely around Alex’s middle. “ Alex kisses his lips, but Miles’ own lips are unmoving and stiff under his. Alex, sensing his discomfort, lets him go after a few seconds. He isn’t smiling now and neither is Miles, who leaves the room in a hurry.

~

The walls of his hallway are still the same sickly orangey brown colour when Miles returns. It’s not as if he wasn’t expecting it, but his heart sinks at the sight anyway. He toes off his shoes and leaves them by the door. It’s only then that he notices that his suitcases are missing, which somehow makes his heart sink even more. He stops in his tracks in the middle of the hallway. Socked feet with his flashy ‘MK’ logo on them freeze on hardwood floors. The hallway looks even more ridiculous and impersonal without the suitcases. And so there Miles stands, in the middle of said nondescript space, having gone from smashing it on stage every night to having to learn to enjoy being at home again. He’s terrible at that. Always has been. And now he can’t fucking move. It seems _pointless_ to move.

Alex slips into the hallway, his gaze inquisitive but not unkind. “Hey. Thought I heard summat. How long ‘ave you been standing here for?”

Miles gives him a curt shake of his head. Adrenaline that would be useful on stage is pumping through his veins. It’s misplaced here, amongst orangey browns and Alex looking soft and comfortable in his jeans and T-shirt. There’s a greasy smudge on his cheek. He doesn’t look anywhere near his stage persona. It’s good to come home to him like this.

“I put up the pictures on your bedroom walls,” he says. “I know I said I’d paint the walls, but I went to the store, but couldn’t make up me mind about the colour. Figured it weren’t really up to me to decide, anyway. Brought you back a few of those colour samples. I promised Louise I’d fly back to Paris tonight, but I can come back ‘ere to paint in a week or two, eh? I’ll still do it. I mean, I’ll definiteleh still do it. I promised, so I will. Joost let me know which colour, Miles, alreyt?”

Miles laughs mirthlessly. There it is. The suitcases are gone and apparently in a couple of hours Alex will be, too. Miles isn’t sure why, but it’s terrible timing. ‘Stay,’ he wants to say, but he doesn’t, and catches Alex’s eye instead. On stage, he can command entire groups of people with a simple blink of an eye; in here any and every look is useless. Alex can’t stay, and Alex won’t suddenly realise that this right here is where he should be. It’s not that kind of fairy-tale. “Where are me suitcases?” Miles demands. He really doesn’t mean to sound so unkind.

Alex looks confused for a second, then smiles. “Emptied them, didn’t I. They’re in the back of your closet. Your regular clothes are in the wash. Suits are at the dry cleaner’s. Should ‘ave burnt your workout clothes but they’re all good to go again, hung them up to dry on the balcony,” he summarises.

Miles doesn’t fail to notice how proud he sounds. “_Why_?” he asks, surprised by the sharpness in his own voice.

“Why what? I said I’d help. It were on me list. The pictures. The suitcases, too. It’s been two weeks, Miles. You’ve just been – I mean, you haven’t done anyfin’ to… I just thought I’d make a start. It were high time. And, I mean, I’ll – ”

Miles shakes his head. He’s still standing nailed to the floor, in the unpainted, suitcaseless hallway, his soft socks feeling like weights attached to his feet, tethering him to the wood. He takes a deep, breath, trying to calm himself. “Al, can you just – _not _do that for a sec?”

Alex narrows his eyes. “Do _what_?”

He shakes his head again, the muscles in his neck tense and painful. “The rambling. You’re going on and on again. You need to give me a moment,” he explains, swallowing a wave of queasy unease. He’s not sure what’s happening. He could go on stage in front of thousands of people without a single trace of nerves, but entering his own hallway is apparently enough to make him feel nauseous. He wonders idly what’s next. He could walk into the living room and flop onto the sofa, but to what end? He could go out onto the balcony and have a smoke, but why would he? His toes dig into the floor. He can feel himself break out into a cold sweat, chills running up his spine, making him feel much more aware of his own body than he wants to be right now.

“_Miles_. Hey. Breathe. Seriousleh. You’re freakin’ me out a little.”

And Miles can’t help himself; he hacks out a humourlessly laugh at the absurdity of the situation – of the silence, Alex’s soft looking hair, his own socked feet on hardwood floors, and the contradicting reaction that all those otherwise nice things are bringing out in him. Another wave of nausea rolls on his empty stomach. His fingertips are tingling now, and he squeezes his hands into fists. He’s been here before and he knows he should probably be taking it easy for a second. Still, he shakes his head when Alex asks him if he wants to sit down.

Alex doesn’t let that put him off. “Can I touch ye?” he wants to know, and walks up to him as soon as Miles nods. He takes Miles’ right hand in his own and squeezes. He uses his left to cup the back of his head and presses gentle lips against Miles’s cheekbone. “You’re alreyt,” he murmurs. Miles likes the feel of those soft lips brushing against his skin with every syllable. “You’re okay, Miles. I know you don’t yet like it ‘ere. But that’s what I’m ‘ere for, yeah? That’s why I’m ‘ere. To help you get settled.”

Miles doesn’t reply. He can feel his body relax ever so slightly under Alex’s familiar hands, and he carefully slides his left hand under Alex’s T-shirt, his fingers pressing against the warm skin at the small of his back. He knows he’s overreacting, but he can’t stop doing it. He grazes Alex’s skin with his fingertips and lets his eyes flutter closed as Alex’s lips travel over his cheekbone, to his jaw, but stay well away from his mouth for now, for which he’s grateful. He draws another shaky breath. His breathing comes easier now that he has something else to focus on, but the thought of moving from this particular spot still seems absurd. He lets go of Alex’s hand and runs his own hand up his arms, closing it around his bicep, feeling that familiar curve that he grabbed onto tightly last night when he pushed Alex into the mattress whilst fucking him nice and slow. It was a good night. He wishes it was still going on.

“Miles, babe, what’s on your mind?” The endearment is what pulls Miles from his thoughts. Alex rarely calls him anything that isn’t his name, and he breathes out a rushed laugh.

“I’m supposed to be the tough one,” he murmurs, only half joking. “Not you.”

Alex smiles, too. “Don’t worry, I still think you’re tough, eh? Ten out of ten would still call you when in need of a strong, manly man to set me straight. It’s joost stress. Louise said the other day that – ”

“You really wanna talk about your girlfriend now, Al?”

Alex breaks off his sentence. “Yeah. No, I suppose not. Sorry.” He wraps his fingers around Miles’ wrist. “Sorry. I tend to ramble. You know I do. Shouldn’t’ave – anyway. Sorry. Come wif me, Miles, babeh, alreyt? You can’t stand ‘ere forever.”

Miles smiles mirthlessly. He always feels a bit bad for Alex for the way he often has to scramble for words, but he’s secretly enjoying the fact that he clearly feels caught for his little slip of the tongue. Still, he lets himself be led into the living room and to the sofa. Alex pushes him down gently by his shoulders. Then he scurries off. He brings him another cup of tea, and the grey tracksuit Miles was wearing earlier. Miles starts to undress, peeling skin tight jeans off his legs and taking off his shiny leather jacket. Once he’s down to his undershirt and pants, he doesn’t bother with putting on the tracksuit. He sprawls out on the sofa instead, dangling his legs from one of the armrests. Alex watches him for a second. “Drink your tea,” he says, firmly but not unkindly. “I’ve to make a call.”

Miles narrows his eyes at him, but doesn’t say anything. He watches Alex disappear into the bedroom with his phone pressed against his ear, doubtlessly to let his girlfriend know his flight times. Miles has half a mind to smash the scalding hot cup of tea on the floor, but he can’t get himself to move. He lies on his back and counts the specks of sunlight reflecting off one of the white walls. The tightness in his airway has built up. Instead of excusing himself to make a call, Alex might as well have sat down on his chest. Miles breathes in slowly, eagerly taking in a mouthful of air that smells unfamiliar now that the scent of Alex’s cologne has followed him out the room. He is isn’t sure how he got here, in a new house that doesn’t yet feel like home, with a live-in boyfriend that isn’t his.

~

It takes Alex a while to get back, but when he walks into the living room again, he’s wearing a pair of Miles’ trackie bottoms and a loose shirt, and he stops in the kitchen to bring back a cup of tea for himself. Miles looks up groggily. He’s still sprawled out on the sofa, his breathing having gone back to normal again but his head feeling as if it were stuffed with cotton wool. He feels hungover despite the fact that he hasn’t had a drop of alcohol in a few days.

“Budge up,” Alex murmurs and Miles does, waiting for Alex to sit down before laying his legs across his lap.

“You’re not travelling in me trackies,” he says, a little too sharply. “I’ll get you your own if you like them, but you’re not getting mine.” Alex is always leeching clothes off him and maybe, just maybe, Miles can’t stand the idea of letting him have more this time.

Alex arches his eyebrows. “I’m not travellin’, am I. I’m sitting on your sofa. Can’t I sit on your sofa in them? Need me to take ‘em off?” He smirks.

Miles doesn’t even bother with a smile. “You know what I mean. You’re not taking them with ya on the plane later.”

“I’m not travelling,” Alex repeats. “There’s no plane. I mean – there’s a plane, I’m sure there’s a plane, but I won’t be on it, I’m late now anyway, as it’s – because I’m ‘ere, and… ”

Miles sighs and presses his fingers into his temples, rubbing them harshly. He likes the rambling most of the time, but today is clearly an exception. “Stop, Al. What are you on about, eh? What about your girlfriend?”

“Called her up just now, didn’t I.” Alex runs calloused fingertips over the coarse hair on Miles’ legs. It feels nice. “She weren’t too happy, admittedleh. But I can’t be in two places at once. And I think I should be here right now, to be honest. The flat’s still only half-finished. And you need someone ‘ere. Joost in case. She agreed.”

“In case of what?” Miles asks. He’s enjoying the feeling of Alex’s warm hands on his cold legs, his fingers pressing into his skin ever so gently, his hands moving in soft, circular movements, massaging him. Alex doesn’t say anything, so Miles closes his eyes and lets him do his thing. It’s probably just as well that Alex doesn’t reply.

“It’s odd to be back home,” he admits. “To go from that. To this. I’m tempted to lie around all day and just – ” He doesn’t finish his sentence, but he doesn’t have to. Alex squeezes his legs gently.

“I know,” he mutters, tracing the place where the cuff of one of the MK socks meets Miles’ skin with his index finger. “It takes some getting used to, being back home. But it’s not all bad, eh? It can be good, too. You just need ta find a balance. Don’t sit around ‘ere all day. Go and do fings. Work out. Pay yer mum a visit. Play some music. Unpack your records. Unpack the rest of the boxes. Buy some furniture. I’m not planning on doing all the work on me own, Miles.” His tone is light, but Miles can’t manage a smile.

“You wanna go to the pub?” he asks instead, opening his eyes to catch Alex’s gaze, but Alex is looking down at his legs, a slight frown on his forehead as he focuses on getting the pressure just right. “Al. Hey. You wanna go get smashed? Like back in the day?”

Alex laughs, not unkind. “I realleh don’t, Miles, to be honest with ya. I want to order in, watch a movie, go to bed early and – ”

“Don’t be _boring_, Al. Let’s go out. Let’s ‘ave it tonight.” Miles’s words fuel the unrest in his own chest. He loathes himself for them.

Alex tuts. “Boring, eh? You’ve gotta let me finish. I want to go to bed early, settle between your legs and take me sweet time sucking you off. Ah’ve been wantin’ to all day. Been in the mood and all. Then I want to ride ya.” He’s started to gently knead Miles’s thigh, his careful movements incongruent with the salaciousness of his words. “We can ‘have it’ alreyt. Just not by getting smashed. Not tonight.”

Miles lets out a nervous cackle, taken aback. He’s not sure he’s ever heard Alex be so graphic about anything and he realises that he’s probably putting it on for Miles’ benefit. “Sounds like you have a strenuous night ahead of you, love,” he jokes, but it’s only half-heartedly. He’s not sure how he feels about what Alex is offering. Usually Miles is the one on top. He enjoys being the one to do most of the work – to make Alex feel good after a long day, or after a gig or a black mood. He’s more conflicted about not feeling like being that person tonight and the implications of letting Alex carry out his fantasy than about what Alex is offering in itself. “It might be nice,” he admits, and Alex hacks out a laugh that is strangely charming. 

“_Nice_? You just wait, Miles Kane. ‘_Nice_’. Ah’ve never been so offended in me whole entire life.” His fingers are still applying gentle pressure to the muscles in Miles’ legs, and Miles lets his eyes flutter closed again, a small smile tugging on his lips.

“Prove me wrong, then,” he murmurs, stifling a yawn.

“Later,” Alex promises. “When you’re awake enough to pay attention to me.” He reaches for the remote control, stretching his own legs out in front of him as he turns on the TV. Miles still has his eyes closed, but he can’t help but smile as the familiar tune of Countdown starts sounding through the apartment. He expects Alex to turn it off, but he doesn’t. Instead, he ceases the massage and pulls Miles’ legs closer, hugging them to his abdomen as he sits back and gets himself more comfortable.

“You don’t want to go to the pub, but you do want to watch Countdown?” Miles teases, but there’s no force behind his words. Alex hums quietly in agreement. Miles rests his head on the armrest and watches him for a bit. He idly wonders if he’s so utterly himself around his girlfriend, too. Miles likes her, but he’s not oblivious. Alex has been here for close to two weeks. That’s two weeks of his spare time he’s spent with Miles rather than his girl. “You’re really going to stay?” he asks and Alex turns to look at him, shrugging his shoulders.

“Yeh. I said I would. Either way, Ah’ve missed me flight now. I’ve no choice.”

Miles narrows his eyes at him. “You’d like to think that, eh? That you don’t have a choice,” he mutters. He half expects Alex to at least get a little annoyed at that, but he doesn’t.

“Maybe, yeah,” he says, as if he weren’t admitting to anything big at all. His grip on Miles’s legs tightens.

“I’m glad you’re staying, for what it’s worth. Haven’t really known what to do with meself.”

“I know that,” Alex says. “Which is why you’re going to watch Countdown with me, have dinner with me and let me have me way with ya later. That’s your evening settled. Simple as that.”

Miles shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “Not even going to give me a little preview of what ‘later’ will look like, are ya.”

“You’re joost going to have to wait and see,” Alex says, shrugging his shoulders. “We’re watching Countdown first.”

Miles props himself up on his elbows, then moves to curl up next to Alex, resting his head on his shoulder. “You’re the most boring sod I’ve ever met,” he sighs, a dramatic air of despair in his voice that makes Alex chuckle.

“Maybeh I am,” he murmurs. “But maybeh I simply know what’s good for ya. I’ve been ‘ere for two weeks. All you do is sit around. It bugs me, that. It’s not like you. We’re going to turn this flat into your home, yeah? Startin’ tomorrow morning. And you’ll help.”

Miles doesn’t reply. He gives a gentle tug on Alex’s hair. It’s longer now than when they last saw each other, almost like he wore it when they were touring with the Puppets together. It suits him. It makes Miles feel hopeful, as does the way Alex’s eyes fall shut when he does it again. “And she’s okay with tha’, your girl?” he asks. “With you stayin’ ‘ere for the time bein’?”

Alex shrugs his shoulders. “You come first reyt now, and for good reason. I know what it’s like, Miles, eh? If she doesn’t understand that, things are going to be unnecessarileh complicated in the future.”

Miles laughs humourlessly. “You know what, Al? I think they might be. Not because of her, not per se. I think I’m going to make you choose eventually, you know. Between her and me,” he muses. He’s not sure he meant to say it, in fact he’s completely sure that he shouldn’t have, but there it is. He sits up a little, so that he can look at Alex and do some damage control if necessary, but Alex doesn’t do so much as frown. He does however smile his trademark non-smile this time, simply pulling the corners of his mouth upwards into a humourless little grimace.

“Oh. Yeah. I know,” he says, and looks right back at him. His shoulder tenses up under Miles’ head. “I’ve been waiting for it. So is that today, then, Miles? Are you going to make me choose today?”

Miles’ heart skips a beat. Something in him wants to make matters worse and tell him yes, but the empty room feels less hostile with Alex next to him. It’s a heady feeling to know that Alex has deliberately and single-handedly woven him a post-tour safety net, knowing from experience that that’s something Miles will benefit from. And he _is_ benefitting from it. He feels looked after. He feels calmer than he has all day, despite the turn their conversation has taken. And so Miles decides against making things worse, just like he’s always done. He shakes his head. “Not today, no. I’m much too comfortable to fight ya right now.” He reaches for his mug, sitting back against the backrest this time and taking a small sip of cold tea. “Too comfortable to cry me sorry heart out over you, eh Al? Besides, I still need you to paint the hallway. You can count on me not to pick fights with you before that’s all done.”

And Alex laughs, albeit not as heartily as Miles would like him to. “Good,” he says, “because I’m not leaving here until everyfin’s in order. Until ye’ve got your new home.” He pulls Miles down with him as he lies back on the sofa, wrapping an arm around him as he returns his attention to the television. With his naked legs pressed up against Alex’s jeans-clad ones, Miles suddenly feels a little underdressed, albeit not in a bad way. He rests his head on Alex’s chest, wraps one arm around his torso and closes his eyes. And seeing as he has much better things to do (like watching Countdown with his naked legs pressed securely against Alex’s, like ordering in and stealing most of Alex’s food like he always does and like letting Alex do all the things he promised to do in the bedroom), he doesn’t bother reminding Alex that he’ll be taking said new home right back to Paris with him once they’ve finished decorating the apartment.


End file.
